Like a Car Crash
by SRC
Summary: It was like watching a car crash... watching Jeff Hardy crumple like an accordion from the top turn buckle. Ken Kennedy and Jeff Hardy.  Not slash. During 7.23.07 RAW.  Please Review.


This takes place during the match-up between Ken Kennedy and Jeff Hardy on 7/23/07. The author takes no responsibility or ownership of the characters and does not know what actually happened during the match. Names, dates and likenesses belong to the WWE.

Please leave feedback; It's how I become a better writer.

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"Like a Car Crash"

By SRC

" Every great mistake has a halfway moment, a split second when it can be recalled and perhaps remedied. "

-Pearl Buck

It was like watching a car crash from the stop light you were stalled at. Some asshole tried to beat the light, missed by a few seconds and then, a breath later, the driver's side door is bent into an acute metal angle, crunched in like an empty bag of baked lays. Metal scrapes against metal and glass explodes from the four headlights on impact. The windshields crack and sputter under the pressure and intricate patterns form like spider webs. A blink of the eye and another car follows the two, swerving into the tail end of the second car, pushing the pile of scrap metal and brokenness further into the intersection. The fourth car just barely taps the third car, hardly scratching the paint of the black, supped up SUV, almost mockingly. You can just make out the head that must have hit the side window of the second car and the window slowly glows pink. And it's amazing at how quiet it is, when it was so deafeningly loud just 5 seconds before. All you can hear is the tinkling of glass as it hits the asphalt. And the heart that is in your throat. And despite the fact that the man from the first car opening what was once his drivers side door, is seriously bleeding from his head and favoring his left hand. You can't look away.

And even though you can see children crying in the back of the minivan where the… is that a women's head… probably ping-ponged off the dash and window enough times to scramble her brain, you can't look away.

You can't pry your eyes off of the carnage in front of you, even though you can hear the wail of the ambulance in the distance.

That's what it was like, watching Jeff Hardly (Disrespectful? Well, yeah. But, the boy-man never did any explaining for anything he did and that pissed everyone off enough to joke about the man's career or lack there of, but not enough to run him out of the company.) crumple like an accordion from the top turnbuckle.

See, when you where assigned a match with Hardy, you knew two things were bound to happen: One, he was bound to screw up at least one move and two, you were going to have to catch his 200 pound ass in mid-flight, while trying to sell it and make it look like it hurt. Well, here is a news flash for ya'll; it does hurt. Not debilitating pain of a chairshot gone wrong, but annoying, why the fuck must he do that every match, pain. And of course that's only if he doesn't botch that move too. And there aren't any ladders involved. Because if there are, you might as well just call your doctor ahead of time, because there was a 3 in 5 chance you'd need surgery after said match.

Just ask Adam Birch how well his match with the Banger Sisters went.

So when you where scheduled for a match with Jeff, you were mentally always prepared for the worst to happen.

But, you rarely think about the other guy.

It's weird, because I feel really guilty. I don't ever feel guilt, I'm way too cocky for that shit. Everyone has a choice, it's my choice to study and excel at wrestling, like I do. It's Hardy's choice to leap off the top rope like a fairy. Everyone has there own path.

I made Jeff practice that fucking match so many times. I made him stay longer at the gym, longer at the practice ring. I made him watch the video of us practicing. I wanted to make sure he wouldn't injure me. I would not be out of the ring again, injured, because Jeff Hardy wanted to be Evil fucking Kinevil. You all probably don't know this, but I hate to lose. Don't act so surprised. I mean, not like, if I'm scripted to lose a match I freak out like some people do, but, I consider losing a match not performing to my most capable extent. Not selling a hit 100 percent. Not selling my character until I have every person watching pissed off at me, but secretly hoping my character will redeem himself. I strive for that perfection; it's like a god-damn drug.

And Jeff, well, he actually took it all in stride. He didn't complain when I told him we needed to go through the moves again. He didn't get huffy when I said that if he went for the leg lock on my left hamstring again, I was going rip off his eyelids. He was a pretty even tempered guy, as far as I could tell, easy going. And I naively took that for laziness or maybe even apathy.

I just told myself one match with him, and then he can get manhandled by Ed for awhile. Ed seemed to like Jeff, and Jeff never really cared who he worked with, so it all worked out.

So when the match was going smoothly, I congratulated myself on schooling the immature, weirdo of his sloppiness in the ring. I even noted that when Jeff executed the moves correctly, he actually reminded me of his brother, Matt. I could appreciate the rudimentary moves that he was performing and understand how the crowd would react so enthusiastically. I mean, it was considered more of a children's show, and he was more of a children's wrestler. Bright colors and flying moves, that required very few neurons to execute and really relied on the person catching them to sell it. Hmm, bright colors and things that spin in the air. That describes toys you give to toddlers, too.

It was half over. Just another few minutes and Ken could shower, go back to his hotel and hope that management would choose another opponent for him, a more deserving one.

I mentally prepared myself for the weight of Jeff Hardly to come directly on his shoulders, as the younger man jumped to the top rope for the whisper in the wind; the stupidest of all moves. Even Robby's five start frog splash was facing forward.

I saw Jeff clear on the top rope, and then a hesitation? Then a waver and I could see Hardy's leg shake and lose all equilibrium on the half inch thick rope. I saw the colorful haired man flap his arms back and forth trying to regain balance out of desperation.

I wanted to reach forward, I really tried, but it was like that car crash. I couldn't, I was frozen. Time wasn't… right. It wasn't accurate. It was going so slow, but way to fast all at once. I couldn't catch up and I couldn't slow it down. And as I watched the smaller man's neck snap on the floor of the ring, I dumbly put my hands out, trying to catch an already fallen man. Like talking a man away from the ledge of a building. It was hopeless. I saw him lying there, completely unmoving, like a limp dishrag, dirty, wrung out and tossed aside. I had to grab a hold of the nearest rope to stead myself, ground myself from the horrible reality. Had I done this?

And then that silence; despite the crowd of thousands of people, all I could hear is the crack the colorful haired mans neck made on impact. And my vision was white, clouded over; white like the color of the dirty canvas below my boots, white, like the color of Jeff's face. Everything was white for an hour and I held my breath.

I was no stranger to out of body experiences. I had had numerous concussions and dozens of semi-concussion. There was a time when he grew out his sideburns and tried LSD, and man was that a trip, but this was the bad kind.

Then his lips moved, and I snapped out of it dragging him closer to the center of the ring and away from the offending turnbuckle that had let the young man down.

I didn't know what to say when I covered Jeff so I just placed my hand over his heart and the other across his shoulder and bicep and nearly noiselessly repeated, "your ok, your ok, your ok".

He kicked out, like I had planned on doing, and the match continued as it was rehearsed. Jeff occasionally would get this sick look in his face, like his stomach couldn't take the events of what just happened, but thank god he didn't blow chunks. He should have the courtesy to do that in the privacy of his bathroom, like I plan on doing right after this match.

I was so happy the match was almost over I thought I was going to wet myself. Two more arial moves and then the countout sprint that Jeff would make from up the ramp.

Jeff was slated to execute a senton bomb before the wall dive, but the fuckin idiot jumped the rope forward and perform the backwards whisper in the wind, nearly taking me out with his arrant boot. I sold the hit and all, but even when he botched the move again, when he rolled up, I knew I had grinned with relief.

What a fuckin idiot. But the man has balls for trying it again. Even if he did botch it.

When I stumbled back through the gorilla entrance, a number of personnel were waiting for Jeff to come up in a few minutes, to check him over, I assume. I saw my escape and snuck out through the fire exit, where I unloaded two protein shakes, a peanut butter sandwich and a few fig Newton's on to the wet cement. Because, all I could think about as I sat there in the cool evening, smelling the contents of my stomach, acrid in the air, was, _What could I have done differently?_

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AN: So, I've been m.i.a. lately and for that I apologize. I, like the dumb-fuck that I am, decided I would take the organic chemistry sequence this summer. So instead of wasting away my summer by sleeping in until noon, waiting tables during the day and getting drunk each night with my old high school friends back at home in Jersey, I'm still in Chicago waking up at 7:00am to get to class by 9:00am and then not coming home until 5:00pm where I continue to do organic chemistry until I fall asleep and start the cycle over the next day. Like I said, I'm a dumb-fuck. 

Another reason for the extended absence is because, I officially became so broke that I had to cancel my cable. So no USA/WWE for me, unless I watch the Spanish dubbed version; and even though I took four years of Spanish in high school, I can only ask, "_Puedo__ir__ al __bano_?", or "_Can I go to the bathroom?" _Real useful, huh? Thus, no wrestling muse…

And to make matters worse, the 5 pages that I had written for "Down Towards…" were mysteriously deleted from my hard drive.

It's really been a rough couple of months.

So yeah, leave comments, good or bad. Thanks!


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